"Connie Willis - Jack" - читать интересную книгу автора (Willis Connie)

asked.
"He's from Yorkshire," Twickenham said, looking at Mrs Lucy. "What did he do
up there before the war?"
Mrs Lucy looked at her cake, as if surprised that it was nearly eaten. "He didn't
say," she said.
"I meant, is he handsome?" Vi said, putting a fork on the plate with the slice of
cake. "Perhaps I should take it up to him myself."
"He's puny. Pale," Swales said, his mouth full of cake. "Looks as if he's got
consumption."
"Nelson won't steal him any time soon, that's certain," Morris said.
"Oh, well, then," Vi said, and handed the plate to me.
I took it and went upstairs, stopping on the second floor landing to shift it to my
left hand and switch on my pocket torch.
Jack was standing by the window, the binoculars dangling from his neck, looking
out past the rooftops towards the river. The moon was up, reflecting whitely off the
water like one of the German flares, lighting the bombers' way.
"Anything in our sector yet?" I said.
"No," he said, without turning round. "They're still to the east."
"I've brought you some raspberry cake," I said.
He turned and looked at me.
I held the cake out. "Violet's young man in the RAF sent it."
"No, thank you," he said. "I'm not fond of cake."
I looked at him with the same disbelief I had felt for Violet's name emblazoned on
a Spitfire. "There's plenty," I said. "She brought a whole torte."
"I'm not hungry, thanks. You eat it."
"Are you sure? One can't get this sort of thing these days."
"I'm certain," he said and turned back to the window.
I looked hesitantly at the slice of cake, guilty about my greed but hating to see it
go to waste and still hungry. At the least I should stay up and keep him company.
"Violet's the warden whose watch you took, the one who was late," I said. I sat
down on the floor, my back to the painted baseboard, and started to eat. "She's
full-time. We've got five full-timers. Violet and me and Renfrew тАФ you haven't met
him yet, he was asleep. He's had rather a bad time. Can't sleep in the day тАФ and
Morris and Twickenham. And then there's Petersby. He's part-time like you."
He didn't turn around while I was talking or say anything, only continued looking
out the window. A scattering of flares drifted down, lighting the room.
"They're a nice lot," I said, cutting a bite of cake with my fork. In the odd light
from the flares the jam filling looked black. "Swales can be rather a nuisance with his
teasing sometimes, and Twickenham will ask you all sorts of questions, but they're
good men on an incident."
He turned around. "Questions?"
"For the post newspaper. Notice sheet, really, information on new sorts of
bombs, ARP regulations, that sort of thing. All Twickenham's supposed to do is
type it and send it round to the other posts, but I think he's always fancied himself an
author, and now he's got his chance. He's named the notice sheet Twickenham's
Twitterings, and he adds all sorts of things тАФ drawings, news, gossip, interviews."
While I had been talking, the drone of engines overhead had been growing
steadily louder. It passed, there was a sighing whoosh and then a whistle that turned
into a whine.
"Stairs," I said, dropping my plate. I grabbed his arm, and yanked him into the